


A date?

by Wanna_be_goodr



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, idiot!Aziraphale, idiot!Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22321615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanna_be_goodr/pseuds/Wanna_be_goodr
Summary: This is ineffable nonsense as well. In particular, it is nonsense about an idea I had for the ineffable husbands' first kiss... enjoy? Maybe?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 63





	A date?

**Author's Note:**

> Oh also there are uses of two very mild swear words but I just wanted to warn ya if that's not your thing...
> 
> I mean they hardly count but just a heads up
> 
> (Shit and Sodding)

Shit.  
All Crowley could think was shitshitshit.

And there Aziraphale was, all glowing and perfect and bloody angelic. And expectant. Expecting an answer from Crowley, his snake-eyed but good-hearted demonic friend. And all said friend could think was SHIT.

“My dear?”

Crowley’s head jerks up seemingly of its own accord, his thankfully immortal neck almost snapping in the process.

“Ngk”

Excellent work, Ant, that’ll sort this out good and proper. Idiot.

Air has never been a necessity for Crowley, but suddenly he needs more of it, more than St James’ Park can provide, more than his stupidly small lungs can take in. His heart is doing a strikingly good pneumatic drill impression, and his tongue is giving its best Sahara Desert. Stupid bloody corporeal form.

“Really Crowley, you look awfully pale… Are you quite well? I- I do hope I didn’t speak out of turn...?”

“M’fine, Angel. Good. Spiffing!”

Spiffing?! For somebody’s sake, will the ground not just swallow him up? Have mercy!

Aziraphale’s eyebrow quirks, but he doesn’t question further. Instead, he turns to the ducks, and his brow furrows in continued guilt. Then, as if he’s trying to kill the serpent next to him, he bites his bottom lip.

“I really had no idea you weren’t supposed to feed them bread. The humans kept doing it! Oh, I do so hope we haven’t hurt any of them… Do you think they are all fine? No harm done?”  
Aziraphale turns with such gorgeous hope in his azure eyes that Crowley loses all that extra air his lungs managed to procure while the angel looked at the ducks. But deep in those perfect eyes is concern, too, and Crowley simply can’t have that. A small demonic miracle makes sure any ducks who have died from gluten overdose ineffably come back to life, and all their ducky families are thrilled, their hearts full of love, and not bread.

“They’re all fine, Angel, you worry too much. Ducks are smart creatures; I’m sure they knew bread was bad all along. Perhaps they simply pretended to eat it so as not to hurt our feelings?”

Aziraphale hums contentedly, easily calmed. He takes another sip of tea from his tartan thermos, then squares his shoulders and turns to Crowley once again.

“Well? You never answered my question, my dear. Would you like to?”

Once again, Crowley has swallowed a desert and will very soon suffer fatal cardiac arrest. He has spent over a thousand years pining for Aziraphale, getting his hopes up only for them to be so cruelly and somehow caringly dashed, over and over again. Centuries of torture, of trying different things to get over his stupid crush: sleeping around, alcohol, drugs, alcohol, poetry, having a good old nap, (occasionally) crying, and alcohol. None of his attempts have ever worked. He even took a buzzfeed quiz, but the only answer he gleaned from it was which Disney princess he’s most likely to be BBFs with (Ariel, surprisingly. Must be the hair).

The point is, Crowley has been in love with Aziraphale for centuries, and he was sure the angel had no clue. See, they were both originally God’s creations, heavenly beings. They should be smart. Instead, they share a brain cell and most of the time it is in Aziraphale, it is focused on food. It’s always been Crowley making the slightly risqué comments then over analysing them for the next decade. It’s always been Crowley longingly looking from behind his glasses. But now, terrifyingly, it’s Aziraphale, asking him out.  
And there’s definitely no misunderstanding, no hidden meaning to Aziraphale’s words he doesn’t get because of his adorable innocence. No, Aziraphale had called Crowley, asked him to meet at the park, sat on a bench near the ducks, turned to Crowley and so offensively calmly ASKED CROWLEY OUT ON A DATE.

And Crowley’s brain had short-circuited, and only one sodding thought filled the cavern of his good-for-nothing head. Shit.

This was all Crowley had wanted for as long as he could remember (the literal beginning of time). All he had thought about since the Garden was this soft, perfect ball of real heaven, sunshine-on-a-rainy-day angel. He just wanted to hold his hand, to call him his. Maybe kiss him, if his Angel would let him… Maybe more…  
Suddenly, alarms started going off inside Crowley’s skull, sirens accompanying the chaos. Aziraphale looked sad. He looked hurt. Who had hurt Crowley’s angel? 

“Of course, if I’ve misunderstood you simply mustn’t fret, my dear. Nothing has to change at all. Forget I asked, let’s go back to the Bentley, and I can go home. I am sorry, Crowley, I’m such a fool…”

Him. It was he, Crowley, who had hurt his lovely Angel! By not replying! By being too slow! Shit!

“NO! No, I- I’d love to. I would. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, Angel”, Crowley blurts without registering the moistening of the dunes in his mouth or the slowing of the hammering in his chest, “shit, Aziraphale, I’m mad about- I mean, I really like- I… shit.”

“You…?”

“I want to go on a date with you, you stupid, perfect, offensively pretty being! You’re ridiculous, and maddening, and impossible! You are so smart, and so beautiful, and it would be absolutely criminally despicable of me not to take you to the Ritz and wine and dine you to your heart’s content!”

Aziraphale’s face was slowly igniting into the hottest, most heart-breakingly perfect fire, his modesty and self-doubt shocked by Crowley’s sudden outburst. The angel wasn’t the only one. Crowley sat there, stunned by his sudden ferocity, and his previous stupidity. How could he have let the Angel doubt, even for a moment, that Crowley didn’t want him, didn’t need him? How could he have been so negligent as to take time to process Aziraphale’s actions? He was asking him out! He asked him out and Crowley HADN’T ACCEPTED IMMEDIATELY! What was wrong with him?

But Aziraphale had stopped blushing, and (even more fatally for the demon) had started smiling. Grinning. Beaming. That was the word for it, beaming – the angel was like a beacon of love and light and relief and joy. And Crowley’s words had caused it.

“You would? Oh Crowley, don’t tease me, would you really?”

Bloody heaven, he’s absolutely flawless. I could kiss him.

It suddenly hit Crowley that yes, he could, indeed, kiss Aziraphale. In fact, it felt appropriate at this moment in time. Crowley could finally find out what those rosebud lips felt like against his own, could finally taste Angel. His Angel.

So he did. 

And then they went on a date at the Ritz and kissed some more. And then they went back to Aziraphale’s bookshop and did more kissing. And they carried on like that for… well, ever.


End file.
